You think National Geographic is bad?

I don’t like blood and gore, children, or the smell of bleach. As a matter of fact, I’m such a complainer that I could probably write a book thicker than the dictionary on things I do not like. But those three things make up Chapter one.

Before I continue, allow me to give a small warning:

If you are a mother, if you are pregnant, if you think childbirth is the most beautiful thing on the planet, or if you are Octomom...you might not want to read this. If you are a man, you might not want to read this. If you are my mother, The Grandmother, or a member of the department of social services...I urge you to turn away before it’s too late.

Now that everyone is gone, let’s begin.

I hated pregnancy. HATED it. Of course it stripped me of all my happy vices in one fell swoop. Cigarettes? Gone. Pot? See ya. Alcohol? Buh bye!

That is not to say I didn’t love the kid in utero, I did... eventually. I just wish she could have popped out of a cabbage patch rather than my vagina, complete with cute outfit, plastic shoes, and certificate of authenticity.

The first few months were mostly fine because I ignored the “goings on”. Getting out of the shower and muttering to myself in the mirror about “eating that fucking basket of teriyaki wings and half of that goddamned pie” was my way of denial. And wearing hoodies.

One night, right before I finally told everyone I was knocked up, I met a guy. I was hanging out with friends from work when he approached me. We started chatting and he was insanely nice and good looking, and come to find out a few hours later, insanely wealthy.

That night when we left, my friends gave me the scoop. His family was very well-to-do and he owned several prosperous businesses in the area. I was already interested before I found out he was loaded, that was a bonus.

But no, not really. Because when I got home that night and did my shower, stand in the mirror and mutter about wings and pie routine, I just couldn’t deal. I couldn’t pretend anymore.

At first I was sad because now, not only would I not get the chance to spend his money, I wouldn’t get to fuck him either. I don’t care what you’ve heard about men wanting to fuck pregnant women...forget it, unless you’re married or in a relationship. That’s not to say that there aren’t some weirdo perverts out there that have this life long dream to put a dent in a baby’s head or have strange bragging rights. I’m talking about normal men.

And do you know what sucks REALLY bad? Pregnant women are off the charts horny. At least for awhile. When I wasn’t thinking about stupid teriyaki wings, I was thinking about sex. It was fucking miserable. Kind of like how things are now, come to think of it. Just without the bun in there, slowly baking.

Anyway...so I was sad. And then I got angry.

I was living alone at the time. (Well, if I’m being technical it was me, my fetus, and my special ed cat named Nugget. Named so because he ate an entire bag of some of the best pot I’d ever gotten my hands on when he was a kitten.) There was a lot of throwing things and a lot of “FUCK MY LIFE’S” going on, when the kid started kicking. Of course, that’s when I broke down and was all “Fuck my life, but now I should probably stop being a retard and tell people this isn’t fat, it’s fetus” crying sort of deal.

I told the people at work a few days later. Right before, as it turns out, the wealthy hot dude came to visit me. Thankfully, I didn’t have to tell him myself. Sigh. The rich one that got away.

I was working as a waitress, having left my old comfy job. Getting knocked up by the boss will do that to ya. But it was probably one of the most awesome jobs I’d ever had. It’s where I met my best friend and several other people I’m still in touch with.

It’s also where I found the worst roommate in the history of roommates. And that is saying some shit, because I once lived in a three bedroom house with 5 other people in the ghetto and one of them liked to walk around naked and invite gangs of hoodrats back from the local Little Cricket gas station, one of which was a really scary black man with dreadlocks and a glass eye that actually tried to stab me with a knife. Yeah, I’m serious.

But this story isn’t about my psycho roommates or hoodrats. It’s about me, me, me. So, skip some drama, skip some bitch slapping, and skip to the part where I quit my job and moved back in with my parents.

My mom had been harassing me to move back so she could “help take care of you and the baby”. (This has since turned into “get the fuck out, but when you do be sure to leave the kid”.)

I became a fucking lunatic.

It was like George Foreman, Martha Stewart, and Hitler all possessed me at once. If I wasn’t grilling meat, baking cakes, scrubbing some obscure corner of the house, or barking orders...I was obsessively doing word finder puzzles. I have no idea why, but I bought them in huge books and took them everywhere. Can’t stand them now, of course.

Once I decided I was going to change bedrooms and there was no one there to help me but my 80lb little sister. I was determined to move every single piece of furniture in that house and if anyone tried to stop me, by gawd, I’d sit on them.

I believe they call it nesting.

I have no idea where I found the strength I had that day, but I lifted an entire bed frame, my sister only balancing the other end, over the bar that separates the kitchen and the living room because I didn’t want to take it apart. I shoved dressers and lifted tables. By the time my mom came home I was triumphant and pissed off.

Everything smelled of bleach. I poured it on anything in my path. I would have poured it on the animals too, but no one would let me. Now I can’t even be near the stuff.

Do you believe me now when I say pregnancy sucks? You’re large, moody, and think you’re Two Men and a Truck...which causes you back problems later in life. What is beautiful about that? But wait for it....it’s not over yet.

My OB/GYN was fantastic. He was a tall, older man and he wore the most adorable glasses I’d ever seen. He was always smiling, always making jokes, and made me feel comfortable.

However, you can only be so comfortable with someone ALWAYS up in your stuff. I suppose if you’re a teenage girl you’d like it...forever getting fingered and all that. But I was over that stage in my life. Fingering was so three years ago.

The Grandmother insisted on driving me to every doctor’s appointment. Those were some of the longest car rides of my life. I made the mistake of allowing her back to see an ultrasound once. She asked the doctor so many ridiculous questions and embarrassed me so much that I refused to let her come again.

Before long I was a little past a week overdue. I’d been to the doctor’s office every week for the past month.

On this particular day I waddled in with my mom in tow, miserable and cranky due to lack of breakfast. It was around 11am. The doctor came in, checked me out, gave me a grin and said, “Well then, if you’ll go on over to the hospital I think it’s alright to induce labor today.”

Today? TODAY! FUCK YES TODAY! Let’s get this sucker cleared out!

“That’s great! I’ll just go home and get my bag, grab some lunch and...”


“Oh no, you should go on over. Someone else can bring your bag. And you can’t eat anything.”

I fixed him with my pregnant woman death-ray glare. “What do you mean I can’t eat?”

“They’re going to give you the medicine to induce you and you cannot eat.”

I almost cried. “But labor could take forever and I haven’t eaten since dinner last night!”

“You’ll be fine! They’ll give you popsicles and ice chips...”

“Fucking ice chips”, I muttered.

The doctor went over more details with my mom since I was no longer inclined to listen. I was too busy devising ways to secretly get my hands on some food.

We arrived at the hospital, signed in, and they immediately took me to a room.

The next two hours were rather boring. They stuck me in a gown and settled me in the bed with an IV drip of whatever it was. Members of my family had already started to gather in the waiting room. The only events more important than birth to a southern family are fishing tournaments and the start of deer hunting season.

The Grandmother was of course let into the room, along with my mom and godmom who wandered in and out getting me ice chips and relaying news to my subjects.

Every now and then a nurse would come in, lift the sheet and check things out. I’d taken to trying to amuse my self and embarrass everyone else in retaliation for not being fed.

“What do you see down there”, I asked her once.

She looked up at me. “Erm, nothing yet...”

“It’s pretty, huh?”


“What?”


“My...”

“Alyson!” My mom and TG shouted simultaneously. They were used to my antics.

I rolled my eyes and contented myself with crunching as loudly on my ice chips as humanly possible.

Then I felt a bit of pain. A sharp jab that made me suck an ice chip down my throat, start choking, and then yelling, as three women advanced on me and started wailing on my back like they were in a Rocky film.

I shooed them away and assured them I was fine. I’d had a few pains in the previous hours, but that was the first one that really, truly hurt. The nurse asked me if I wanted drugs.

“Hell yes! Fill ‘er up!”

The first drug they gave me was Nubain. It was lovely. I was high as a kite.

I don’t remember much of what I said while on the Nubain, but everyone was laughing at me so I imagine it was a lot of nonsense. I DO remember that at one point they all left and in my drug haze I noted the phone on my bedside table.

I picked it up and dialed my best friend, who I hadn’t had a chance to talk to yet.

“Hello”, she said.
“Hey! It’s me!”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m having a baby!”
“Um.....right now?”
“Yes!”
“Um....ok. Maybe you should call me when you’re, you know....done.”
“Ok!”

Talking to her later, she thought I was in actual, pushing labor. So much for getting her to sneak in contraband.

The Nubain wore off and they came in to do the epidural. Just remembering it makes me shudder. It didn’t exactly hurt, but it was very strange. It pinched and I felt a kind of jolt along my spine. After it was in though, I felt nothing from the waist down.

I said out loud to my godmom, “I had sex with someone once and it felt just like this.” (It was just a joke at the time. Little did I know it was going to become a reality one day.)

Finally the nurse said it was almost time. In came the doctor, but it wasn’t MY doctor.

My mom was all, “Oooh! Al! You remember Dr. So-in-So! He delivered your sister!”

“I was seven”, I grumbled. “And that is soooo weird...”

“Do you want a mirror brought in so you can watch”, the doctor asked me.

“No the hell I don’t!”

Then for some reason someone let my bastard ass father in the door. “Oh, there’s my girl...you’re gonna do great...go get um’ Al...”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

He backed out grinning and waving just as massive pains started. I had no idea why the fuck my stomach was hurting so badly. I shouldn’t be able to feel anything.

“They didn’t give me enough drugs! They didn’t give me enough drugs!”

“It hurts because you aren’t pushing. You need to push”, the doctor said.

That’s when it dawned on me. If I pushed, a living human being that I’d have to take care of was going to come out of my vagina, and no amount of shoving was going to get it back in there. Not that I really wanted it back in there, but considering the alternative...

I refused to push because I was scared. I stalled.

In the movies they let you have a sheet over your legs. Not in real life. I’d yank it over me, and then the doctor would yank it off. We did this routine a few times before he finally pulled it off completely and handed it to the nurse. I was livid. I’m pretty sure I called him a fucker.

I looked up and there, reflected in the big, shiny black TV was my bizness. ALL my bizness.

“AHHH! The TV! Cover that damn TV!”

My mom says that she was so embarrassed that I made the doctor climb up on a chair and cover the TV before I would push. Well they got me back later, I’ll tell you that.

The doctor instructed my mom and godmom to get on either side of me, one holding one leg and one holding the other. At one point I looked at them and they were both staring down, wide eyed.

“What the fuck”, I yelled. “Stop looking!”

They both turned their heads up in the air quickly.

I’ll leave out the rest. Not for your sake, for mine. Suffice it to say it’s all blood, goopy stuff, and naked embarrassment.

It was over in record time...about 5 minutes after I started pushing and 5 hours from the time I was induced. I’ve heard stories about women being in labor with their first child for days. Fuck THAT. Somebody would have gotten me a plunger.

They cleaned up the kid and handed her to me. For the few minutes they let me hold her before taking her to the nursery I was in awe.

But when they took her away, everyone went with her. Nurses, family, everyone left assuring me they’d be right back. An hour later I was still waiting and getting angrier by the minute. Once they took the kid away, I remembered how fucking hungry I was.

I finally picked up the phone, called my dad and he answered, clearly emotional. “WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYONE!”

“Oh, we’re looking at the baby! She’s beautiful! You did such a good job!”

“Can you PLEASE get a nurse in here? I'm starving! This is probably why some female animals eat their young!”

They finally sent someone to take care of me and moved me to a regular room. A few minutes later, with a room full of people, The Grandmother came walking in with a big bag of Chick-fil-A.

I almost cried I was so happy.

I was sitting up in the bed, blissfully stuffing my face with chicken sandwich and ignoring everyone, when a nurse came in.

“Here you go”, she said. I took a thick envelope out of her hand.

Still chewing, I nodded at her, set my sandwich down and pulled out the contents. Then I promptly spit out the wad of food, hopefully in her direction, and screamed.

They were Polaroids. Of my bizness. And the stuff...and my bizness...and the...oh gawd, it was horrible. Who the fuck authorized them to take photos? Not me! And more importantly, how the hell did I not notice that someone was snapping away?

I eventually calmed down and continued eating. I’d waited too long for that food to let them ruin it with birth porn. I made up my mind to burn them when I got home.

They brought the kid in a little while later and I made everyone leave so we could have our first mother/daughter discussion.

“First things first”, I said. “You are perfect. And clean now, which is even better. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it’s going to be ok. I’ve given up sex and drinking, I’ve gotten stitches in my vag, and I’ve had about 10 people I’ve never met see my junk and document it. I wouldn’t do that for just anybody. So...it's you and me kid."

I continued jabbering and cooing at her for a few minutes while she looked at me with those blue, new baby eyes. Then I had an epiphany.

“Ha! I’m not going to burn them!”

I grinned at her tiny face.

“I’m going to show them to you when you’re older! Free birth control. Hahahaha! This parenting shit is easy."

Guest Posting day 7: Steve

Today is the final day of Penis Week. I will be returning tomorrow with quite a long post. Be prepared.   I hope you enjoyed my all male review. I know I did.

Last, but certainly not least, we have Steve. He's irritating, funny, and far too busy to post regularly...jerk. He writes some pretty amazing stories about his family and if you have a chance, you should definitely check him out. Read on.

The Women In My Life

Good day, you filthy bastards! Or wait… Am I the only filthy bastard here? Really? Damnit. In any case, this is HardlyHearsHimself, also known, as Steve “Is he serious?” Brown (not really, I just made that up. I hope it catches on though) from Conversation With Myself reporting derisively in place of OtherWorldlyOne. It’s been a long and surprisingly arduous weekend folks, mostly because I was out drinking copiously and gallivanting about this horrid city in place of writing this post I’ve been so honorably asked for. But the time for rabblerousing is long past, it seems. Or perhaps not, depending on just how it is you react to this mass of text I’m about to cram down your ocular cavities. What the hell was the topic again?

Ah, right, the women in my life.

I never wanted a brother. This seems entirely off topic, I know, but bear with me here, I’m going somewhere relevant with this, I swear. Right, I never wanted a brother. It was a strange disappointment the day my parents brought home my penis bearing younger sibling. You see it was early on in life that I realized I was much fonder of the fairer sex, for no discernable reason really. It’s possible I found them intriguing, at first. Particularly since they were so far out of my stubby reach; I was rather corpulent in my younger years (not to say I’m that old now, regardless of my rampant misanthropy and general loathing of teenagers), so the girls I was so fond of didn’t readily approach me. Instead, as I was left with no other options, I studied them from afar; obsessively so at first, but as I grew older and found not all of these cruel she-devils were repulsed by me, more casually.

Socializing has never been my strong suit, be it with men or women. Inevitably I did of course befriend males over the years, but not until the 8th grade did I ever associate with a girl I could, with sincerity, call a friend. And before I knew it, I had more of these girl friends. As I had suspected from the start, I found them much easier to harmonize with. According to them, it was because of my “understanding nature.” Apparently I listened, where most others waited their turn to speak. I’m not so sure if this applies to me still, at least not in the majority of cases. I was a nicer guy back then, and if you know me now, you’d find this claim preposterous like the rest of my current friends, male and female alike.

So I made girl friends. Which, by the way, is very awkward terminology. The subtle push of a space bar completely altering the meaning: girl friend, girlfriend. I realized it was not so difficult a task, befriending the ladies. At that age, it was a really just a matter of flattery and charm more than anything, which I wasn’t exactly adept at, but to my benefit I had humor on my side. Ah, yes. Humor has always served me best in these situations. Chicks dig funny guys, right? So I made them laugh, and they loved me for it.

Since then, the women I’ve known have come and gone. Friends, girlfriends, and bitches I can’t stand. Whores who broke my heart, girls I’m still secretly in love with, so on and so forth. I’ve often thought about just why it is that I find myself able to connect better with females, but never gotten to the bottom of it. I’ve been told it has something to do with my relationship with my mother, but there is no relationship there to speak of. My mother is a woman I can’t stand, as she epitomizes everything I hate about people in general. So that wouldn’t be a valid explanation.

Regardless of the explanation though, I do love the women I keep close to me quite dearly. If I went through the list of the people I speak to most often, I’m sure at least 75% of it would be comprised of females. And I’d bet at least 50% of that list would be girls I’ve at some point had feelings for. I think that’s just inevitability when it comes to guy-girl relations, be it plutonic or otherwise. Can you really think of a pair of male and female best friends who have never felt something more towards each other? If they claim so, I assure you it is fallacy. One of them is keeping it secret, for reasons I can completely understand, having been that position time and time again.

Right now though, I’d say out of all my female friends there are two I know will play significant roles in my life. The first would be my best and without question closest friend, Mersiha. The story there is a good one for sure. To shorten it, basically, I spent most of high school day dreaming about having sex with her as she sat in front of me in Spanish class. Once we were both in college years later, I’d added her on Facebook and she remembered me as “that guy who slept behind her in Spanish”, yeah, sleeping and dreaming of that magnificent ass of hers. Forward about a year or two, and here we are now, inseparable. There isn’t much to it really; we are just completely and utterly compatible. We think alike, talk alike, and feel alike on most things. More often than not we come to the same conclusions on any topic, and have almost identical everyday habits. When she told me once that at times, her inner monologue would slip into a British accent, I knew then and there that we would be friends forever. Because I do the same shit and how ridiculous a coincidence is that? It was clearly meant to be, and I can’t imagine my life without her.

The other all-important and irreplaceable lady in my life right now is someone I’ve wished for since childhood. I’d never wanted a brother, you see, but I have always wished for a sister. And, to my great fortune, I got one this year. Just this summer, my mother adopted a baby girl, and it was definitely an unbelievably joyous occasion for my family. She was only 2 days old when we got her. Apparently she had been abandoned shortly after birth at an old folks home, and the people there knew my mother and knew that she was looking to adopt, so they called her first, and she jumped at the opportunity.

I have yet to meet her, as she lives in Bangladesh with my mother and younger brother, but I leave in a few weeks to go visit, and I really can’t wait. The prospect of playing older brother to this darling little girl makes me quite giddy. I can’t wait to watch her grow up and be there for her when she needs me for anything at all. I’ve seen too many brothers be intolerable and overbearing/overprotective bastards to their sisters and seen how awful that can turn out, so I can’t wait to be the kind of brother she can always rely on.

Ladies and gentlemen, my baby sister Azra:

Guest Posting day 6: Mysterg

This guy kept me on edge and waiting for this post until the VERY last minute. Shithead.

I'm actually out of town and about to get ready for my first tailgating/complete college football game day experience (Clemson vs. Florida State). That means tomorrow's guest post will not go up until much later than the others. It's a long drive home. Everyone have a great weekend and please enjoy my last two guest posters and show them some love.

Mysterg always has an entertaining story to tell, it seems. He alternates between posts that are very moving and heartfelt, and posts that are laugh out loud funny. He's even been known to start a debate or two. I knew he'd have no trouble writing about women. Read, enjoy, comment, and then go visit him at his lovely blog: Meditations in an Emergency.



She...


She is the woman who after breaking her foot in three places and spending the night at a hospital where a flasher in a mac kept indecently exposing himself to her, helped me get over the first girl that I ever loved...

She is the woman who got me drunk on a whole bottle of Austrian Schnapps, covered me in make-up, stole my shoes, then sent me to work where I danced on a food counter in front of 100 people before throwing up everywhere...

She is the woman that came to my aid when I overdosed on jalapeno peppers and half-collapsed inside a walk-in fridge whilst foaming at the mouth...

She is the woman that on my 18th Birthday, despite not knowing where I lived, took me home absolutely wasted...even if I did wake up on the doorstep with my front door keys in my hand...

She is the woman responsible for the funniest karaoke moment I've ever witnessed, a duet of the B-52's Love Shack, with the campest, baldest, most deadpan gay guy you can possibly imagine...

She is the woman that taught me all the dance moves to the STEPS version of the Bee Gees song "Tragedy", which led to me being inappropriately touched/violated by a gay guy during a Lost Weekend...

She is the woman that was a good/bad influence on me, my drinking partner in crime who encouraged me to makeout with her best friend on and off for several years, until said friend got married...

She is the woman who gatecrashed a total strangers house party with me, gave me a drunken lap dance in the middle of their living room until we were thrown out, walked her home and put her to bed...then woke up in a shop doorway...

She is the woman who educated me in the ways of the world, including most importantly how to both toast and swear in other languages...

She is the woman who shares in my love of Partridge, Morris, Bailey...

She is the woman who disappears for months or sometimes years at a time, but always returns to me...

She is the woman who reigns as queen of all the redheads that I've ever had the pleasure to know...

She is the woman that has always listened to me instead of waiting for her turn to talk...

She is the woman whose shoulder was there to cry on when my whole world fell apart...

She is the woman whose bed I would crawl into and snuggle with, on and off throughout many years, whenever I needed the warmth and comfort of another human being...

She is the woman who has restored my faith in womankind countless times...

She is the woman that I trust, something I cannot say of anyone else, except perhaps my immediate family...

She is the woman that I would do anything for, no questions asked...

She is the sister I never had...

She is the lover I never took...

She is the wife I will never marry...

She is the mother of the children I will never have...

She is the lifetime companion I will never grow old disgracefully with...

She is the one that I love with all my heart but have never fallen in love with...

She is the friend I will always have...

She is the one that got away...yet I wouldn't have it any other way...

She is the one that I miss...

She...

Guest Posting day 5: Organic Meatbag

I came across Meatbag's blog several months ago, but a little pop up that said "ADULT CONTENT" stopped me from going any farther. I mostly blog at work, so I was a little hesitant to click on anything with those two words, loudly proclaiming my intent to go against policy. Poor Meat thought I didn't like him. I finally got over that ridiculous fear and started reading anyway. After all, even though I don't classify my blog under "ADULT CONTENT", I still talk about penises almost daily. If I'm going to get in trouble, it won't have anything to do with him.

Anyway, Meat is my funny muse. (It's because of him that you were able to experience the Richard Simmons's story.) He writes some of the most hilarious posts I've ever read. Today he's graced us with something a little more heartfelt. Something about this week's topic has really brought out the love in the fellas. Pussies. (Kidding. Sort of.) Go Meat!


So when Alyson asked me to do a guest post for her this week, naturally, I said "What's the topic, you harlequin?" She thoroughly implored me to go fuck myself, but then she lightened up and said "Oh, the topic will be about a meaningful relationship, either past or present, or maybe a humorous dating story"...OK, just kidding, she never told me to go fuck myself, although I am sure she wanted to, but that is what the topic was really about.


The truth is, until 11 years ago, I never had a real relationship of any substance in my life...at least I wouldn't consider them of any substance on my part. There aren't a lot of good dating stories in my life, or relationship stories, and not too many good memories for me to dwell upon with girls in my early days, so I retracted myself into a pseudo-party boy lifestyle, especially when I was old enough to frequent clubs, but I wasn't happy, not even in the slightest sense of the word... nothing mattered to me...until I met her.

I met her in September of 1998. We got married on April 30, 1999. So yeah, we knew quickly that this thing we felt was real. We clicked on every level. We shared the same warped sense of humor, we shared a love of The Simpsons and Seinfeld, our upbringings were different enough to pull that old "opposites attract" theory, and oh yeah, we most definitely found instant chemistry in the bedroom...wink, wink!

I never thought I would find anyone that would accept me for everything that I am, and admittedly, I am flawed in many, many ways. She doesn't care...she accepts me, she helps me through my pain, she puts up with my idiosyncrasies, she puts up with my KISS music, she deals with my old wrestling tapes, she put up with the deafening loudness of my drums for all of these years, and I feel damn lucky...every single day, I feel damn lucky. I thought I would wander this world all alone. How in the hell I found my soul mate in the most improbable chance meeting of all time, I will never know, but I'm not going to question it.

Eleven years later now, we are still as happy as ever, we still laugh incessantly at each other, and life is good. We never had any kids, but we do have a dog and a cat that we consider to be our kids. Will this whole "procreate and repopulate the Earth" thing happen with us? Maybe...you never know. We're not trying but we're not avoiding it either. If it happens, it happens, we'll just have to wait and see.

And oh yeah again, just to snuff out any possible questions about it: Yes, we are still red hot in bed. Hehehehe...yep. We have managed to keep things exciting through the years. Like the time we had sex in our old apartment complex's indoor pool, or the many times that we would open the patio door right outside the same complex's outdoor pool and have sex on the floor in full view of anybody out by the pool. And oh yeah, did I tell you about the time we were stuck in a complete traffic jam on I-75 North between the Georgia and Tennessee border? Yeah, we had sex in our old truck. Right there. In the middle of the traffic jam. With people walking alongside the interstate next to us to see what was causing the traffic jam. Well, I'm sure they were walking by us to watch us having sex. That was hot...hahahaha!

So do you see why I love this woman?

Guest Posting day 4: The Kid in the Front Row

Today's guest post comes from The Kid in the Front Row. He writes a film blog, but it's much more than that. Inspirational pieces on making your goals a reality, short fictional stories, and random hilarious posts make his site one of the most interesting I've come across. Even though he is currently in New York and I'm sure very busy, he consented to do this for me. I didn't even have to bribe him, though I probably would have. So read on, enjoy, and go visit him when you're done.


The women in my life are great. In fact, they're very loving and affectionate, unfortunately just not towards me. I used to think it was maybe because our interests didn't quite match, or maybe because I'm not quite their type - but now I have a more logical explanation for it - it's because I'm completely ugly and uninteresting. Okay, no. No, I don't want to go with that explanation. How about this one - all the women I've ever met/been with, are completely insane? Yep, I prefer that one. It works for me.


The language of women confuses me. 'I don't love you anymore' often means 'I still really love you' and this one time, 'I love you so much,' I found out, was code for 'I am sleeping with Marcus Dilberry.' How we are meant to decode these things, I'll never know.

Girls have also broken up with me for the most crazy reasons. For example, this one girl, Nia, forgave me when I slept with her sister - but dumped me after I left the bathroom seat up for the 4th night in a row. WHY DOES IT MATTER? It's not like she was going to fall down it and get her ass stuck. Okay, that did happen once, but it wasn't my fault -- she was dieting like crazy (another weird obsessive thing girls do) so it was her own fault she plummeted deep into the mirky depths of the bowl.

I wish I had more positive stories to share with you, and I am trying my best to remember some seedy sex stories. Many of the women I've been with love sex, yet it's still hard to convince them to have it in the same room as me. Again, many weird codes have often come into sexual relationships, like when 'don't worry, it's not too small' has been followed deep into a night of passion with, 'i'm ready when you are.'

I remember one girlfriend who, well, okay, I don't remember her that well, was it Nicole or Nicola? Maybe it was Jenny. Anyways, you can't expect me to remember, it was like two years ago and I've nearly dated a girl since. Anyways, she was always going on about how I should be more of a 'modern' man. so I tried to be more modern, I figured being a modern man was doing the dishes and my share of the cleaning. In the end, she showed me what modern loving really is, she married some man from craigslist.

Women - I can't figure them out, I have no idea what they're thinking - the only thing I know for sure is that they have really nice breasts.

Guest Posting day 3: The "devastatingly handsome" MLS

The guest today truly needs no introduction, but I’ll give him one all the same.

He has been one of my top favorites since I began reading his blog months ago. Humorous and reflective, with a talent for the descriptive that I would sell virtually anything to possess, Mr. London Street’s entries are never dull. He doesn’t shrink away from the controversial and I admire his opinionated nature. I hesitate to make his head any larger than it already is, but I suppose there’s no help for it. I’m honored, even without his having mentioned it (and he did), to be the first recipient of a guest post from him. Actually, it was more like an air-fist pumping HA! So without further ado....

Two nights in the Purple Turtle

Many years ago I met my friend Kirsty for lunch on an anonymous summer day. On the face of it, this was no different from the dozens of other days we had met for lunch, with one exception - this time Kirsty brought her along. We clicked instantly. We spent the whole lunchtime talking as if we’d known each other far longer than we had – far longer, in fact, than I had known Kirsty.

At the end, I went back to my desk to uselessly move work around from one part of an org chart to another in the name of productivity and efficiency. And that afternoon, my email pinged with a message from Kirsty. “She thinks you’re dishy!” it excitedly said. I didn’t think anybody under the age of 50 ever used the word dishy.

Over time, I came to realise that this was exactly the sort of thing she would say.

The emails between us began. Several emails a day – long, chatty emails about everything and nothing. When you first meet someone it’s all there, off in the distance, waiting to be discovered. All those tiny facts that you absolutely have to know when you really like someone – where they went to school, their childhood embarrassments, their favourite bands. What their mother’s like. What they like to eat. What they’re scared of. And then there is that bizarre feeling you get if you‘re really lucky, when you begin to realise that somebody you really like might want to know all those things about you. We have all been there. Those early stages are wonderful, where everything about that person fascinates you, and you want to know it all, piece by piece. All that potential.

The early stages of what though? My jealous, miserable and controlling girlfriend made the answer to that problematic.

The mistakes were all lurking out there, waiting to be made.

Back then I used to escape the house early each morning and hide from everything in Costa Coffee. I had a large coffee and a copy of the Mirror in front of me, along with four cigarettes and once I had finished them all I was almost ready to face my colleagues. It was time to myself to spend not thinking about how my life was going wrong, but then she started joining me. The coffee and the cigarettes still got finished, but the newspaper soon became surplus to requirements.

I never socialised with her outside work, I knew that was against the rules. My girlfriend was busy alienating all the women I was already friends with, initially through conventional means such as extreme chilliness. Later on, she developed more imaginative methods like sending them offensive texts from my phone late at night while pissed, pretending to be me.

So over those months, my life turned into a negative of most people’s lives. My days at work were full of colour, life and ideas and I didn’t want them to end. When I reluctantly shut down my computer I would head back to the house to a greyscale existence of rows and bickering. It felt an awful lot like falling asleep. The only things that were vivid at night were the daydreams and the sadness. The former led inevitably to the latter.

The exception was her leaving do. She was leaving Reading to go study a long way away and we had some drinks in a pub next to a gloriously hideous multi-story car park. Despite the build up, all the action happened elsewhere as my friend Ivor ended up dry humping Kirsty against the side of a transit van in a state of total inebriation. By contrast, she and I seemed like the grown-up chaperones, but none the less in a quiet moment she finally made explicit what had been crackling unspoken between us all summer.

“Something for you to think about when I’m in the frozen North” she said.

Out that back of the Purple Turtle at two in the morning she made a more tangible offer. By this stage we were both quite drunk. She talked about me moving to Newcastle with her, I had absolutely no idea whether she meant it. She invited me to walk her home. I was pretty sure she meant that, and I knew what it really meant.

There was only one problem: I couldn’t be that person.

I had spent that summer wanting to be that person, daydreaming about being that person. But when it came to it, it was beyond me. So I sat there at the bus stop and watched her walking off into the distance, leaving me with only my shortcomings for company. They made for very lousy company.

My girlfriend found out and was furious. She punished me not for what I did but for what I could have done, and I began a protracted stretch living in the worst of all possible worlds. Meanwhile my correspondence with her limped on for a few months but it wasn’t the same. Now she knew this one thing about me, she seemed far less fascinated by everything else. And one day she contacted me from university and told me that our friendship couldn’t continue. It was too painful, she said. I could hardly blame her, since I felt it was no more than I deserved.

If I had liked myself better back then, things would have been very different. For that matter, my whole life could have been very different. But it took somebody else - on another summer’s day, flowing with gin and chemistry - to start to teach me to do that. And this, whatever it is, is not that story.

Life moved on and some time later I got an email from her. “I was looking through some old mails” she told me “and I thought ‘I can’t delete him’.” So we caught up. She filled me in on her news and I told her mine, that I had left that girlfriend and got married to someone I had known for seven months. I decided not to labour the point about the gin and the chemistry. The fact that I had one day done what I couldn’t do back then was in the background of our conversation like static on a phone line, but it was never discussed. I thought it would be okay.

She came down to visit. Kelly liked her and we all got along famously. I had a feeling that something had been mended, that we would be friends now and I was proud of that. Since conversations were no longer forbidden we used to have epic chats on the phone. I usually had to put aside time for them, block out a Saturday afternoon. And then when Kelly and I bought our first place I invited her to the housewarming party. Everyone liked her. My friends liked her. The two guys she picked up in the After Dark and brought back to my living room at 2 in the morning liked her. Even the floor held her in a warm embrace as she drunkenly toppled from her chair, after we had invited her new friends to leave.

And then I ended up sat in my doorstep with her at four in the morning feebly attempting to comfort her as she cried onto my shoulder.

“I always thought it would be me in the end after you split up with Cheryl. I always thought you were my boy.”

What could I tell her? I had always thought that too, but we had both been dead wrong.

The sun was coming up, and she didn’t want me to walk her home. So as before I watched her totter off into the distance but, this time, I went back upstairs to my life.

A curious detail of this saga is that many of the protagonists got back together with their exes. My jealous girlfriend got back together with her ex and now they live in Wolverhampton with a child and presumably a large collection of personality disorders. The man Kelly left for me got back together with his ex. He was decent about it all and I hope he’s happy. And she got back together with her ex too, the ex she was getting over when I first met her many years ago. I think they want children, something I would never have countenanced. I suppose these things have a habit of working themselves out.

The last time I saw her was a few years back on a chilly December night between Christmas and New Year’s Eve when people who wouldn’t normally set foot in Reading, like her, come back to spend time with their family. We went to the Purple Turtle and sat again in that back garden doing what we always did best, talking for hours about everything and nothing. Mended at last, perhaps.

In that setting, with those drinks, I thought it was inescapable that we would get round to discussing the only other time we were in the Purple Turtle together, many years ago. And, at about two in the morning, leaning against a fence and watching the revellers stagger past - younger than us, all their mistakes waiting to be made - we did precisely that.

“I just would have slept with you, you know that?” she said “It wouldn’t have been a relationship.”

I smiled inwardly.

“I know.”

Guest Posting day 2: Jerrod

This second guest poster is one of the most genuinely nice guys I've ever had the opportunity to speak with. Normally I'd say that "nice guy" is like a death sentence, but in this case it's clearly an exception to the rule. His real life posts on blind dates and drive-through employees are hilarious, and even though he's clearly frustrated, he can still find the humor in those situations. Not to mention he was a killer four year old Mr. T. Please welcome Jerrod, from The Yellow Factor:


Let me start off by stating that when I asked Aly to pick a topic, this was probably the one I wanted to do the least. Being habitually single leaves only the relationships that have expired. Past tense. Some good, mostly bad relationships where you are left thinking "What the hell was that?". Those that read me know about my single life...the blind date characters I've endured.

This post will be different. This is a post about the girls that I don't have to impress and they are always with me. This post is about a group of friends. Randomness about some truly great girls. You know, the ones that don't expect anything more from you than your laugh and smile.


The friend that vents to you about serious stuff. They have others to confide in but they choose you.

The friend that knows you the most and despite that information, still hangs around.

The friend that convinces you that someone particular Saran wrapped your car... to the point of helping you get revenge on that person's car.... then confesses that she was in fact responsible in the first place. Mastermind.

The friend that you text with while you're both in the backseat on a road trip. Texting because actual audio conversation has been denied by the driver who just so happens to be out of her mind.

The friend that looks for your shoulder. No matter the time.

The friend that can make a day road trip so fun simply by the music played and how it is sung in the car.

The friend that believes in you so much more than you do yourself.

The friend that got you watching TV shows that you thought you would never ever watch. Ever. Spencer is such a tool, by the way. Whatever.

The friend that can quote TV and movies with you on the spot, just to break up the boring work day.

The friend you know that you will do absolutely anything to make sure she is happy. Absolutely anything.

The friend that you don't have to worry about intentions with. You just be.

I was told a bit ago that I have such heart for my friends. I may be picky with relationships but one thing I know is that I've got some great friends in my corner. The kind you will protect with your life. Now if they would only introduce me to one of their single friends.... jerks.

Guest Posting day 1: Mo.Stoneskin

Today is the first day of Penis Week - my all male guest posting extravaganza. I'm overworked, underpaid, and I've misplaced my blogging mojo. What better way to take a break than to showcase some of the best male bloggers out there? They'll be talking about the women in their lives, past or present...good, bad, or ugly.

First up to bat is Mo.Stoneskin. His humorous tales of strangers and their quirks are a treat to read every Monday. Occasionally he gives us a story about his own life, like the following, and it's just as entertaining. Read it. Love it. Then go visit him at his place and beg him to post more often.


I slouched lazily with a can of Stella in my hand, casually held at a slight tilt. I rotated it slowly, the gold top reflecting images from the TV and light from the fish tank. Fascinating, could have done that for hours. Nothing compares to watching shadows of fish dancing across a can of lager. I suppose fish swimming in my can of lager would be pretty awesome, though it might spoil the taste and cause the fish to get rowdy.

"Can I tell you about my fantasy?" I asked.

My wife looked up from her cookery book and raised an eyebrow. "Go on," she said.

Fantasies, fetishes, quirky personal preferences. Fascinating subjects aren't they? Everyone fantasises at some level, but it is tricky to determine where fantasies come from or how they develop. It has been suggested that they express an aspect of our unconscious and often incorporate fetishes, some of which are understandable. Heels and boots for example, what man doesn't love them? But some are just weird, especially if they involve feet. Some people have a foot fetish, but how weird is that? Feet are disgusting, I've long believed that feet are the most revolting part of the human body. Grotty, cheesy, skanky, stinky, I just don't get it, what could possibly cause a foot fetish to develop? Overexposure to cheese as a child? Unhealthy proximity to a pedicure clinic? But anyway, that's just me, and it is healthy to talk about these things with your partner.

My wife waited patiently. Fun-loving criminal that she is I sensed surprise. Surprise and scepticism. Married for five years, I suppose she thought she knew me as well as she possibly could.

"Well," I said, glancing down at her cookery book, "when we were kids we used to have roast lamb most Sundays. We only got a couple of slices each and it was never enough. I've always fantasised about buying a huge leg of lamb, dragging it home, roasting it and then scoffing the lot. It would be the most incredible moment of my life."

I have never seen her laugh so much.

Peter Pan syndrome and Penis Week

This morning when I left my house at 6:30am my mother stopped me at the door and said, “You do know there’s a towel on your head, right?”

I think that’s a pretty good indication of how today will go. I have my absent minded hat on and it’s blue and white striped terry cloth.

Anyway, isn’t my best friend lovely? I was worried that she might tell an embarrassing story or make fun of my crush on her brother, but there wasn’t one snide remark. I didn’t edit her entry at all...except to put spaces in because I’m anal like that. (No butt jokes please children.) AND not once did she call me a lesbian! Bravo, Rachel. (Haven't read it yet? Do.)

We’ve both been moaning lately about how boring our lives have become. Just the other day I called her on my way home from work and our conversation was a little disheartening.

“What did you do today?”

“Well...” She launched into a list of household duties and internet rubbish. Then came the kicker...

“Oh! There’s this pan that had eggs stuck on it for days. No one has been able to get them off, not even my mom when she came to visit. But today, I scrubbed and scrubbed that bitch and I FINALLY GOT THEM ALL OFF! I was standing there, grinning over my accomplishment, and then...I wasn’t. Because all of a sudden I realized this is the most excited I’ve gotten in a long time, and it’s all over scraping a fucking pan of eggs!”

I howled with laughter. Then I told her about my own excitement.

“We borrowed this really kick ass carpet shampooer. I was tired when I got home from work and I didn’t want to do it, but we had to return it the next day. So, I filled the bastard up with the soap stuff and water, threw all my shit on my bed and started shampooing. And for some reason, I got all hyped up. I was all “OUT DAMN SPOT!” and “HAHA!” and “HEY YOU GUYS! LOOK AT THIS SHIT! LOOK HOW WHITE THIS IS!” Dear gawd...what’s happened to us?”

She was laughing. “I don’t know.”

“I have nothing else pertinent to talk about. I’ll call you later if I have an interesting run in with the laundry.”

“Ok, later.”

And that was that.

Honestly! What have we become? Is that what adults do – get excited about cleaning? Am I doomed to discuss things like politics and the weather? Would it be cliché of me to go all Peter Pan and declare war on adulthood? Sigh. Probably.

We used to do crazy things!

Like climb into parked vehicles that weren’t ours and talk our way out of getting arrested for it, dance in the fountain downtown, yell belligerently at cars driving by with their windows rolled down, dance with hot foreigners and maybe sleep with them and maybe laugh at each other through the walls because things are a little too vocal on one side and not vocal enough on the other, wear ridiculous outfits on St. Patty’s Day and get so drunk by noon that when they vacate the area for a tornado you wonder where everyone has gone while you were in the bathroom, pull over the car every 10 yards so one of you can puke but on the 3rd stop come back to the car and declare you must go another 5 yards because a couple is sitting on a bench right in the puking area and you’re positive they are getting engaged, get tattooed together, have ridiculous contests that no one else can ever know about, attempt to attack a flock of geese, do the worm and tell the guy that said you can’t dance that he has a receding hair line and sucks at life then do the Pee Wee Herman off the dance floor and hit on his friend, make out with each other and find pictures of it the next day and destroy the evidence, trick a fireman into believing he’s getting a threesome then drug him and crawl around on hands and knees looking for pictures that were probably deleted ages ago but leave laughing because one of you had to dress up like a dominatrix for no apparent reason, teach the kid to tell her grandma she wants to go to the liquor store and get wasted, put I’m Bringing Sexy Back on repeat for 45 minutes and refuse to change it when people complain and instead make them line up and slap your ass.

Yeah, we were cool once.

If I’m going by the conversation from last night, maybe things will get...better. Ok, maybe not.

We talked about the Halloween party (unfortunately she has to work and can’t be there), the costume I chose, what she was going to dress up as for work, my conquest plans for Nate, and her recent drunken night with her boyfriend.

Apparently they ran into a group of his friends and she regaled them with stories of how enormous his cock is.

About the time she was telling me this; I was attempting to put on my robe and holding the phone with my shoulder. My face hit the speaker button and out into the living room came, “...HIS HUGE COCK! IT’S MY HUGE COCK AND YOU BITCHES CAN’T HAVE IT. THE COCK...”

Giggling like an idiot, I finally managed to take it off speaker. My mom sat on the couch gawking at me, which made me laugh even harder.

“What in the hell is that girl talking about”, she asked.

“Her boyfriend’s cock, obviously”, I said.

She rolled her eyes and from the next room the kid yelled, “GOOO COCKS!”

Mom glared at me. I shrugged and went outside to finish talking. At least the kid was associating it with football...

Anyway, maybe one day when we aren’t both broke and tired from work...we’ll got out and get into trouble again. I do so love trouble.

In other news:

I’ll be taking next week off from blogging. I’ll still read and comment where I can, but I need a break...and possibly I need to get some work done. Eh, whatever.

Fear not! Next week I’ve asked some of my favorite male bloggers to take over. It’s sure to be interesting. Just...don’t let a week of yummy men make you forget what’s important around here: Me.

I’ll announce the line up and the topic by the end of the week. (Fellas, remember the deadline is Sunday.)



Oh! AND I just reached 100 followers! WOOT! That's exciting business. Maybe I should do something to mark the occasion? Suggestions? Other than sexual favors please...I'm far too busy. Anyway, welcome to you new folks who have yet to comment. Have a look around and feel free to give me money.

Oh, and one more thing. Those of you that don't have a blog, no picture, and just one letter for your name....say, my mom's initial....who are you? Seriously. Creepy....

Thank you. Come again.

We've only just begun: The end. I win.

His mother told me she found my work number in the court papers. She wanted to see her grandchild.

I was floored. I honestly couldn’t ask her any pertinent questions. Mainly, “Where the fuck have YOU been the past year and a half?”

I agreed to take the kid to their house so they could see her. At that point, I was imagining Chris covering up her existence...or something. I thought that I would see what it was all about, see if they were good people, and if they were...they should be in her life. It was the right thing to do.

It was hands down one of the top three most awkward moments of my life. Poor Hannah had no idea what the fuck was going on. They didn’t even remember who I was, but I remembered every little detail about them.

Chris was there, in close proximity again. He sat in a chair across from mine, barely moving or saying a word. I was so deeply embarrassed by my still there raging sexual attraction for him, I rambled. They asked one or two nonchalant questions about the kid, and I went off on a tangent. Yatta yatta yatta. I know they were thinking, “This chick is on speed.”

I think I only made it about two hours. I couldn’t stand it. I made up an excuse and bolted.

The next few times were a little easier. I asked Chris’s mom to meet me, without the kid, to talk some things out. I was irritated and angry that they never once offered me any kind of explanation for their absence. They just stepped in like, “Hi. What’s for dinner? Oh, hey kid!”

We met at the mall and sat in the food court. I wanted a public area where I would be less likely to show my ass and she would, hopefully, be less likely to show hers. I didn’t know how it would go.

Basically, I tanked. I never ended up getting the answers I came for or saying all of the things I wanted. She twisted around what I was trying to nervously get out and made it sound like I was being ridiculous. I felt like the little teenager that was trying to wear her mom's shoes and play with a real live baby. This woman had delt with three other women before me...what the fuck did I think I was doing?

At one point, when she said something about me not contacting them I said something along the lines of this, “Talk to Chris about that. I called him over and over again, for months, and he never had the time.”

“I didn’t know you’d asked him”, she said.

“Oh, yes. I asked him.”

“Well, I’m sure he feels kind of awkward...since you two don’t really know each other. But Hannah shouldn’t have to suffer for a one night stand.”

Bitch say WHAT?

I know my mouth was hanging open. I was appalled, embarrassed, angry, defensive....so many things. Maybe we didn’t know each other well, but it wasn’t a goddamn one night stand. I was having more sex in your house than you were, lady. He met my parents...even if it wasn’t intentional. I met you guys several times and you don’t even fucking remember me. My head nearly exploded.

I stayed calm though. I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it was borderline civil.

I rarely spoke to Chris in the months that followed. The kid continued to go over for day visits without me. I was weary of overnighters, but his mother and I were getting along better. She and Chris’s father are truly good people, just misguided and ignorant when it comes to their youngest son.

I took Hannah to their house for Christmas Day present opening. Chris and I exchanged tentative smiles and conversation. We sat next to each other while we put the kid’s toys together. Another one of those moments of feeling loss....

He was never far from my mind now that I was seeing him more often again. I still wanted him and I never once let him see me looking anything less than completely put together. I raged about his lackadaisical involvement out loud to everyone and dreamed about his hands on my body at night. It was mental torture. Had he said “come”, I would have...on the spot. That’s embarrassing to admit, but completely true.

Then the accident happened.

His mom called to tell me that he’d lost control of his motorcycle and wasn’t wearing a helmet.

I was terrified he would die and the kid wouldn’t know her dad. I was terrified he would die period...but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to feel that way. What was he to me other than Hannah’s dad?

I found out he had a girlfriend then. His mom called to give me an update about him waking up. He was confused, she said, and asked for me.

Me? He asked for me?

Yes. Instead of his girlfriend, his mom said. She had to remind him of her.

I was a mental case. What did that mean? I went off into fantasy land and didn’t come around for a very long time. I became obsessed with his recovery process and hearing about this girlfriend I knew nothing of. What did she have that I didn’t? Not his child. She was older. I was younger. Surely I was the better choice?

Along with those feelings, I had others.

He was having trouble with his memory and not thinking clearly. It took him longer to speak a sentence. He was physically banged up too...deep gashes on his head that required surgery.

Once it was established that he wasn’t going to die...I felt a sort of grim satisfaction. His girlfriend wasn’t likely to stay and help him recover (and she didn’t). Who knew what else he’d lost? He was already having trouble with his mind. I had as many cruel and smugly righteous thoughts as I did worries for his health. In a way, I thought of it as his payback for everything I’d been put through...for all of his nonchalance and disregard for our daughter and.....well, my fucking uterus, ok.

I got over that relatively quickly, only lapsing into calling him a retard when I was really angry or frustrated. He’s not, by the way.

A year after the accident, he was still home and still struggling with his recovery. He still moved slowly and felt like he was in a fog sometimes. Whatever that meant...

He seemed lonely and depressed. I felt sorry for him, but after the accident...there was one very noticeable difference.

The way he looked at me.

I could be completely off base, but I could have sworn he was checking me out. His smile, the old look in his eye...they were there. He seemed shy instead of indifferent when we spoke.

I seized that idea and ran with it.

The kid was spending the night there one or two weekends a month. Instead of making his mom meet me, I drove the LONG drive to their house, just so he could see me in one getup or another. I wore going out outfits when I wasn’t going out. Shoes that were...ridiculous. A lot of the time, I was going out...and I let it be known just how much fun I was getting ready to have while he sat at home with his parents.

It was ridiculous and petty. I wanted him not only to want me, but to know that other men were having me...to feel alone and disabled.

But he never changed. He stayed home, he didn’t seem to be progressing, and he didn’t seem to be taking any more interest in my antics. I stopped.

But don’t think that I was some desperate psycho baby’s mama, fawning all over him and blowing up his phone, crying on his doorstep. All of those issues...stayed internal. I never made a scene; I never professed any kind of feelings for or to him at all (except the original irritation with his lack of parenting).

I haven’t seen him out of sweat pants or jogging shorts in two years. I asked him if he’d like to go to dinner with me twice...to get him out of the house and to see if I could finally have the conversation I never had with him. To just ask him...why? He agreed then backed out due to not feeling well.

My best friend went with me to pick up the kid once and observed his odd behavior with me. She thinks he’s embarrassed about his issues and doesn’t want me to see him this way. Who really knows?

He avoids me most days now. Stays upstairs. He and the kid have gotten a little closer. I can tell on those days when I don’t call ahead and he’s still in the living room...she cares about him and he looks like he cares about her. They hug each other and kiss each other and she squeals and laughs with him. I know that doesn’t sound like much to you, but for her it’s massive. She’s lived in a house with three women and she’s always been wary of men. She doesn’t let them close to her and she isn’t easily persuaded.

I go over there with yesterday’s makeup on and pj pants now, my hair in a messy bun and with a carefree attitude. More often than not I have his mom meet me somewhere. He still gives me those looks from time to time that make my face burn and my heart skip a beat. I still have this place inside me that compels me to care about him, to still want him sometimes. But I don’t let it make me crazy anymore. I ignore it and I go on about my business.

I’m no longer that 18 year old girl that went after trouble and got it. I’m a 24 year old woman. And now I’m the trouble.

Oh...and so is she:

We've only just begun: Part three....but we've definitely passed the boner whispering parts. Sorry.

I was surprised to discover that this story is taking a toll on me. Every day this week I’ve been replaying our time together in my head. Sometimes I’ve been amused, sometimes sad, and sometimes angry. The majority of the time I’ve just been really turned on.

You thought I was going to say something profound, right? Ah, ye of little faith in my filthy mind.

In all seriousness, I’ve been feeling very nostalgic and have toyed with the idea of talking to him about things. However, I decided long ago that the past is the past, and no matter how much “what if’ing” I do, everything turns out the way it does for a reason. Now on with the show, hmm?

We continued our trysts at his house, almost daily.

I spent my mornings and afternoons watching him move around the training room and my nights getting high and using him like a rowing machine. I was ditching the gym to buy us more time since TG was becoming more and more agitated by my nightly absences.

We spent one glorious afternoon on the lake. The only downside was the meeting of my parents. It was when they were still married and as luck would have it, dad was home and sober that day.

We only stopped by so I could drop off a package TG insisted my mom had to have. My attempt at explaining that just because we were going out on the lake didn’t mean we would be close to their home wouldn’t suffice. Chris was slightly irritated since the package in question was a head of cabbage. I can’t say I blame him.

Anyway, we delivered the important cabbage and I introduced him to my parents. My dad was immediately taken with him. He had a boat and a truck, and by gawd that made him a man’s man...even if he was a Yankee!

My mother wasn’t so easily blinded. She took me aside and said, “How old is he?”

“Um, 28, I think.”

“Right. And you work with him?”

“Yes...”

“Right. What are you doing, Al?”

“I like him. LOOK at him.”

“I am.” She sighed and gave me a look that I now know was pity. At the time, I thought she was disappointed in me for plucking out of the company pot...the older one.

We left and went on our merry way, stopping mid lake to enjoy a little public boat sex.

I met his parents that day too. Though, unlike Chris, I didn’t leave a lasting impression. The next we met they didn’t remember me at all.

Things continued on for awhile. I’ve found that most of our time after that weekend runs together in a blur of sex. He did come over to TG’s once, late at night, and sat outside with me and a friend. He watched me roll a blunt and eat a snack cake at the same time, which couldn’t have been attractive, I’m sure. He didn’t like that I smoked pot, but I pointed out that he’d done it at my age. Again, probably not an attractive thing to bring attention to: our age difference.

He’d hurt his leg skiing a few years before I met him and had a lot of trouble with his knee. The scar was terrible...huge and oblong, but I thought it made him that much sexier. Occasionally he’d have to take a few days off work when it hurt really badly, or something.

Shortly after his visit to TG’s, he did just that. And while he was at it, he took some time away from me as well. Back then I thought it was all about the stupid pot and the age quip, but it wasn’t. He said he was resting.

I was worried that my happy ending would go up in smoke if I didn’t do something. The only thing I knew to do was talk to him. So after a few days, I called and asked him this question, “What are we? Are we dating?” Well, a variation of it anyway.

His response was immediate. “I don’t want a relationship.”

I was crushed, but I put a valiant effort into not letting him know. I said OK, changed the subject, and then got off the phone shortly after. We agreed to talk again soon.

I cried for gawd knows how long. I knew that after I asked the no-no question and received that answer, that we couldn’t even go back to the casual hanging out and sex. I’d showed my hand.

Work was terrible. I felt like everyone knew what had happened. I was positive that some of them did because one of his best friends worked there.

I spent the next week getting epically wasted and smoking massive amounts of pot. It took me that long and a remark from TG about the empty contents of the bathroom trash can to realize that I wasn’t just vomiting from being fucking up all the time.

I was too stunned to cry at first. He’d had a vasectomy. The first fear I had, however illogical, was that he wouldn’t believe me when I told him.

I called him before I had time to really digest what was happening.

I exhaled heavily. “I have to tell you something”, I said.

“What’s up?”

“....I’m pregnant.”

Pause. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Shit. Um, what do you want to do...?”

“Have an abortion, I guess”, I replied.

He sighed. “I’m against abortion....but I can’t afford another kid...”

“Ok...”

“Ok. So, you need my help?”

“Um, yeah.” I was choking back tears by this point.

“Ok. Find out how much you need and let me know.”

“Ok.”

I hung up. I couldn’t deal with his nonchalance. It was like I’d just told him, for the third time, that I needed the $20 back he’d borrowed. After all, it was only my fucking uterus. Again.

I found out how much it would cost for how far along I was and I told him. He said he’d have the money in two weeks. The thing about abortions is they get more expensive every week. I didn’t tell him that, though somehow I bet he knew.

Then I did what I do best...check out of reality. I conveniently forgot I was even pregnant. It was going away soon anyway...what difference did it make?

I got fired from my job, which was just as well. I couldn’t stay on the call floor anyway, I was too busy vomiting.

Two weeks turned into three and I didn’t hear from him. I called again and he said to give him two more weeks.

The next time I spoke to him, my daughter was five months old.

(The months between the last two times I spoke to him aren’t his and my story. They are mine and my daughter’s.)

I could have gotten the money myself. I could have saved for those few weeks and had enough, but I didn’t. I was more comfortable ignoring the changes in my body and pretending it was business as usual. Everything happens for a reason, eh?

Being a single teenage mom, the government will help you pay for daycare and medical care. At the time, I would have been content to work five jobs and get it done myself, but my mother would have none of it. In order to get the help, they required that I pursue child support. I’d had no intention of ever contacting Chris at all.

They notified me of a court date to establish paternity and that they sent him a letter. I actually laughed when I heard that. Not just a chuckle, but fall down hysterics. My poor mom thought I’d gone off the deep end. I had for a minute. I pictured his face when he opened a letter saying his presence was required....possibly his daughter...and I just found it hilarious. I howled and hiccupped with tears streaming down my face and tried to tell her through it all just why it was so funny. He probably thought I’d had an abortion and forgotten all about me. That was FUNNY.

She gave me a few Xanax and sent me to bed.

The closer the court date got, the more nervous I became. What if he didn’t show up? What if he did? Would he think I looked fat? What would he think of my daughter?

Selfish thoughts mixed with the more logical. I’m only human.

I had his child; I wasn’t allowed to forget him. Somehow I couldn’t hate him either. I could call him names, laugh at his expense, but the truth remained that I never stopped being...attracted to him. I was disgusted with myself for it.

I showed up at court that day with my daughter, cousin, and family friend. I didn’t have any idea what to expect, but I knew what I needed. I needed my cousin to be the superficial asshole she was and validate my claim that he was hot. And I needed the family friend to glare at him. I realize that might not make any sense to you, but I had to appear normal and by trivializing the experience, it allowed me to...be normal and calm.

I sat in the huge main lobby, the kid nestled in my lap and a ferocious female on each side.

“Do you see him yet”, my cousin asked. She craned her neck and looked around the room.

“No.” I attempted to be less obvious.

“Bastard”, said the family friend.

“Is that him?” My cousin pointed at a tall man in a white t-shirt and jeans striding across the lobby.

I nodded. I watched him sit across the room on a bench and put his elbows on his knees. He looked at me and I quit breathing.

My cousin stood up and said, “I’m going to the bathroom over there so I can get a better look at him.”

“Rat bastard”, quipped the family friend, glaring for all she was worth.

I sighed. What an idiot I was.

My cousin came back a few minutes later, a look of awe on her face.

“He’s fucking gorgeous!”

I sighed again. “I know.”

When they called our names we went into a room. We sat elbow to elbow, not saying a word to each other. The woman went over some shit; I have no idea what, and then asked him if he wanted a paternity test. He said, “Yes”, then looked at me and said, “I’m sorry...it’s not that I don’t believe you...it’s just...”

“I understand.”

We went across the hall into another little room. They swabbed mouths and the lady said she had to take our pictures to go with the sample. She asked if we wanted it done all together or all separately. Chris and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“Alright, get in closer together.”

He leaned against me while I held the kid, the woman snapped a Polaroid, and then left it on the table to dry while she went to get something. I stared at that fucking thing while it developed and I felt the keenest sense of loss...I can’t even accurately describe it.

Once we were let go, he strode to the staircase. I stood a few feet away with the kid in my arms; he paused on the step and opened his mouth to say something. I handed her off to my cousin and went to him.

“I’m sorry”, he said.

I just shook my head.

“I’ll take care of her, if she’s mine. I’ll be there.”

“Ok.”

Over the next several months I went insane. We went to court again to figure up child support, this time without the kid. He said he wanted to be involved and to call him.

So I did. I called and I called and I called. He was always too busy to see her that day. Always working that weekend.

“Please”, I begged him, “just tell me a day...any day and I’ll make it happen.”

All my intentions of not caring, of not wanting him or needing him disappeared the moment I saw that picture. I wanted him to be something he wasn’t. I wanted him to be a father. He just didn’t care. His lies and excuses weren’t even made to sound plausible, and I swallowed them again and again.

I was disgusted with myself, but I couldn’t stop trying to make him pay attention.

Finally one day he said he had time to see her. I left work early to pick her up from daycare. I called to let him know we were on the way and he said he’d just gotten called in to work.

I fucking lost it. I screamed and cried told him what a son of a bitch he was and how I’d given him every opportunity and then some and he still didn’t care. He apologized and made more empty promises.

I didn’t call him again.

A year later I was sitting in my office. My phone rang.

It was his mother.

We've only just begun: Part two

The following day, at work, I was full of nervous anticipation.

I watched him go through slide after slide of meaningless computer drivel. I was day dreamy and impatient. He smiled at me often, as if to say “just you wait”.

We talked during lunch break outside, careful not to touch each other. Dating or sleeping with other employees was frowned upon.

He asked if I would like to come over that night and watch a movie. I said, “I’d love to...” and in my head added, “Have sex with you”.

I went to the gym after work. I’d been going consistently for a few weeks and really enjoyed it. That night, I remember nothing. I couldn’t tell you what machines I used, or how long I stayed. I floated in, did things, showered, and floated out.

His house was in a large subdivision and when I pulled up, it wasn’t quite dark yet.

I rang the bell and he let me in. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly, but it wasn’t his parents sitting in the living room...living there...watching the pre-walk of shame.

He introduced me, quite flippantly, and I awkwardly waved and said hello. Then I followed him up the stairs, glancing back at his parents to gauge their reaction. I don’t think they even glanced up from the TV after I walked in the door.

Once I was in his room, I forgot all about them.

We picked a movie (I’m pretty sure it was Eurotrip) and settled down on the bed. We talked about work and I asked him about the pictures of children around his room.

“I have three sons”, he said nonchalantly.

I balked. “THREE?”

He told me a little about them, their names and ages and the tiny little fact that they all had different mothers. Then he mentioned that he had a vasectomy. Of course, I thought, why wouldn’t he? Three kids at 28. (Ah, 18 year old Ally...your ignorance amuses your 24 year old self.)

I was surprised by all the information he was throwing at me. I’d never liked children and I’d never slept with anyone that much older. The truth is, after the first few minutes, I didn’t care. I had decided that he was pretty much perfect, kids or no kids, and I was determined that we would have a relationship.

I was lying on my stomach, chin in hands, watching the movie. He was propped up against the headboard, ankles crossed and nestled against my body.

I felt him slide his hand up the leg of my pants and rub my calf. I continued watching the screen while he shifted over me, lifted the hem of my shirt and licking the small of my back. I was biting the shit out of my bottom lip, which is what I do when I’m nervous or insanely turned on...or both.

He grasped my shoulders and I allowed him to turn me over. He leaned over me. One hand braced on the bed and the other cupping the side of my face, he stared directly into my eyes. I’d never seen that look in a man’s eyes before...because I’d never slept with a man. Boys...only boys. That stare was impossible to break, intense, knowing, calculating...scary. I was shivering before he even really touched me.

He pulled his shirt over his head and gawd, he was sexy...with just the right about of muscles and tattoos on his upper arms.

He made short work of my clothing and the rest of his, pausing to kiss me every so often.

I was on fucking fire. I was touching him, kissing him, and begging him to touch me more. He ran his tongue down my body, pausing to lick my inner thighs and I made a noise of protest. I’d never liked oral sex. But he grinned at me and moved in anyway, pinning my wrists to the bed when I raised my hands to say no.

He didn’t have to hold them long...they went limp, and then grasped the bed sheets tightly when he paused to bite my thigh. I think that was the first time I came, but who really knows? I felt like a bomb set to go off every few minutes and each explosion, though slightly different, left me more breathless and more...gone. I think my mind was gone. I had no idea what was happening, really.

My mind might have deserted me, but my mouth was clearly present. I believe he had to say “Shhhh” several times. When he finally slipped inside me, he had to cover my mouth with his to keep me quiet. It had been eleven months and, well, you guys know...right?

We didn’t have sex that night. I can’t call it that. He was intense, tender, achingly slow, and every single movement was made for me. At the time, I called it making love. Now, years later, I call it artful seduction.

But I’ll have to save that for next time.

We've only just begun: Part one

This is a story I’ve only ever told in bits and pieces. I’ve never written it outright and I thought it might be a good day for it, since my mojo is taking a vacation and my brain is grinding with the effort of thinking up new material.

It was my 18th birthday.

When I entered the training room that first day and looked around, I was heavy with disappointment. I’d yet to learn the old adage, “You don’t shit where you eat”, and was of the mind that the working environment was the best place to pick up men.

Not only that, but I was severely undersexed: Eleven months of abstinence following an event that horrifies most, traumatizes some, and fazed me barely at all. I like to say that I abstained from sex because I had an abortion and it scared and horrified me and I don’t want people to think I’m a monster, but it’s just not true. The truth is, I wasn’t afraid of the abortion...I was afraid of getting pregnant again. Coupled with the fact that I just hadn’t met anyone that I wanted to have sex with.

That training room was full of women and scattered here and there was a geeky guy or a gangster wanna-be.

The tables were long with three computers side by side. I took a seat three rows back, on the end next to two black girls. We immediately started a conversation about the lack of prospects.

The door to the front of the room opened and we all glanced up expectantly. In walked the trainer...our boss for the next four weeks.

He was beautiful. Tall, shaved head, big dark brown eyes with thick, inky lashes, full lips, and a deep voice that gave me chills up and down my spine. I’d never felt such a powerful, instantaneous physical attraction.

His name was Chris.

Formalities commenced and we started going over and filling out new hire paperwork. He came to my table and I handed him my finished stack. He smiled at me and took it, glancing down and rifling through to make sure it was all there, I suppose.

“Look at that”, he said.

“What”, I replied, worried that I’d messed something up.

“It’s your birthday today.”

“Oh...yeah.” I was embarrassed.

Of course everyone had to wish me a happy birthday and make jokes about my age.

I don’t remember much else from that first day other than his warm brown eyes staring into mine.

The next day I was on a mission. I was determined that I would have him, by any means necessary.

I’m ashamed now to say that I employed less than admirable antics: using the dumb blonde act, flirting with other guys, and wearing tops that left little to the imagination. My only excuse is...I was 18. As for the cleavage....I still do that, but trust me...we’re talking from then (obscene) to now...definitely more tasteful.

The other girls nudged each other and shook their heads while he paid me more attention, laughed at my jokes, and flirted with me outrageously. Everyone in that room, all 20 something of them, knew we were going to hook up.

After four days, I had my man.

Number in hand, I went home that afternoon and tried to think of anything but him. I wanted to call so badly it hurt, but I knew I should wait and let him do the calling.

I had just moved in with The Grandmother and we weren’t adjusting to each other’s company very well. I’d been on my own for the past year and I resented being told what to do.

On that day my mother was visiting, and my mother is the ultimate shit stirrer. I’d been home from work approximately 30 minutes before they started irritating me and I stomped out to the porch to sit on the swing and smoke.

I picked up the phone and called him, no longer caring about appearances. He asked me to meet him out.

I got ready and met him at Applebee’s. I don’t remember the conversation.

I remember the way his face looked when he smiled. I remember the way he seemed to dominate the entire restaurant...as if he’d sucked all the air out of the place and the only way I’d go on breathing was to look at him.

I remember being nervous. Especially when he decided we should go play pool at a local bar. I’d never been to a bar in the city, just the hole in the wall places my dad used to drag me to. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be let in, but he handled everything.

Soon we were playing pool and bantering back and forth. I drank vodka and Jaeger (not together)...which back then I loved. He brought my drinks to the pool table and I wasn’t bothered once. It excited me, that first taste of what I thought being a cool adult was like, and doing something illegal, which I wasn’t a stranger to.

I was quite tipsy when we left and we decided to sit outside on his tailgate for awhile. Again, I don’t remember what the conversation was about specifically...this time it was probably due more to the alcohol. But soon we were hitting each other playfully and dodging the other’s advances like school children.

It went on forever. I was dying to be in his arms, but unwilling to make the first move. In the end, I didn’t have to.

I made a smart remark and he pinned me to the side of the truck and demanded I take it back. I, of course, refused. We struggled against each other and I thought I would literally explode by the time his lips met mine. Our first kiss was not gentle.

I felt wanton and exposed, wrapped around his body in a busy parking lot, but I didn’t care. A trucker drove by and cat called out his window and Chris broke the embrace long enough to laugh, then bent his head to mine again.

That was our first date. I arrived home at 4am with swollen lips and confronted an angry TG. I waved her off and went to my bed smiling.

I smile now, remembering that girl lying there with tingling skin and sore lips, and shake my head. If only she knew.

Does it feel hot in here to you? Must be me. Do do CHHH!

Sometimes I feel a little muddled in the head.

You know, like there’s cotton wool up there and you can’t think so you say what you think you’re trying to think out loud and it comes out something like this:

“My nipples are hard ‘cause I got the chills and it’s not even cold.”

And your big boss is standing there looking at you like you’ve peed on the carpet they just shampooed, but you don’t even care because you’re trying to think about why your nipples are hard when it’s not cold and wondering if you unknowingly had a sexual daydream somewhere in your cotton wool brain and then getting this horrifically angry expression on your face because you can’t THINK and you haven’t gotten laid in forever and if your brain is having sexual daydreams without you then you are really going to be PISSED. Then you say something like, “I’ll have that for you this Monday”, and he gawks at you as you zig zag down the hallway with your head tilted to the side and shouts, “Today is Tuesday!” and your only reply is a maestro finger move in the air and a half sung, “Tuesday’s gone with the wind!”

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel a little depressed.

You know, like when your four year old daughter says she doesn’t want you to walk her into school this morning because you aren’t wearing any make up and your hair is wet and you wonder who taught this ungrateful child to care so much about appearances and then you remember sitting on the porch and openly laughing at that incredibly fat five year old jumping up and down on the trampoline that isn’t even hers and knowing that if she breaks it you’ll be blamed for it because your fat ass was jumping on it two days ago, but then making a remark about her bob haircut and who does that to a fat kid anyway? Then you hang your head in shame and vow that your daughter will learn that it’s not what’s on the outside and jiggling up and down that counts, but what’s working its way through those fat little insides and if she ever wants another snack pack again she’ll do well to keep that trap shut.

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel like vomiting.

You know, like when you find out through the grapevine that your mother’s ex boyfriend whom you nicknamed Spongebob because of the ridiculous tattoo on his fat pasty white leg has been asking mutual acquaintances if you are single and if they think you’d be interested in going out with him and when they tell you about it they laugh uncontrollably, especially when you start making those retching sounds and not even as a joke, they’re totally real. Then you freak the fuck out because what if he thinks you owe him something because he fixed your car and gave you that expensive digital camera and a $100 gift card for Christmas and he shows up to put the fucking lotion on your skin and give you the hose he used on your mother...OH DEAR GAWD and the retching continues because he’s probably crazy enough to do it. After all he tried to buy you and you totally let him and you realize that you’re probably going to get stuffed into a van when you leave work by a short, fat man that looks kind of like him but you can’t really tell because he’s got used panty hose over his face and you make a promise to yourself that if this happens you will stab yourself in the jugular no matter what Jesus says about suicide.

No? Maybe it’s just me.

And sometimes I feel sheepish.

You know, like when you write a blog post that makes absolutely no sense but you can’t help it because the alternative is actually doing some work or getting up to go to the copy machine where you’ll surely pass your boss and he’ll shake his head because he’s positive about two things – first that he’s writing you up for wearing that shirt when he specifically told you through another employee that that amount of cleavage is not suitable for the office and secondly he’ll forgive you all your weird habits and outbursts and even your unsuitable cleavage if you’d just sit on his desk one time with no under....

Ahem. I’m sure that’s just me.

Thank you, come again.

Fat kids are fun. Richard Simmons has a vagina.

What is the definition of food?

The chief comfort Southern women are born and bred to provide to their loved ones.

The Grandmother isn’t a true Southern woman in a lot of ways, but that heifer can cook. Fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, rice and gravy, biscuits. And bake...Boston crème pie, cheesecake, pound cake, peach cobbler. When she wasn’t cooking, she was feeding me store bought goodness. Cheetos, cookies, ice cream sandwiches, candy bars.

I would sit in my brown wing chair, watch “Clarissa Explains it All” marathons and stuff my chubby little face. Then I’d lock myself in my room and read about horror (Goosebumps) and pre teen angst (The Saddle Club).

Misty water colored memories....

Until...TG decided she was tired of my expanding, adolescent waist. She began her campaign then and there by making the most beautiful cheesecake I’d ever seen.

(There’s a long list of things I’ll do for good cheesecake and most of them are felonies and/or crimes of a sexual nature.)

She brought said cheesecake out on a lovely glass platter and called my 10 year old self into the dining room. “Look what I made”, she said as she extended her arms, bringing the platter level with my face.

As I looked, it sang its cheesecake siren song and demanded I inch just a bit closer. So I did. But as I took that one tiny step, TG took one back. I looked up at her in puzzlement. This was my offering, was it not? I was the chosen child, was I not?

“Oh, I forgot...you can’t have this”, she declared. Then she whipped around and toted it back to the kitchen.

That was the day my sister became the undisputed favorite and I became the “Oh, you can’t have that” grandchild. Even 15 years and a normal weight later, I’m still the “Oh you can’t have that” grandchild. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Once TG started her campaign to shame me into losing weight, my mother jumped on the band wagon. She realized that she had found the perfect work out buddy to help her lose that 2nd baby poundage.

I saw my life flash before my eyes when she purchased matching work out clothing and a box set of Richard Simmons exercise videos.

But no matter how much I protested, I was told that the Department of Social Services most certainly wouldn’t consider it child abuse. No amount of threatening, begging, or bargaining with my candy stash could keep her from her goal: 3 days a week mimicking Richard’s scary, tan legs pump pump pumping away at the pony.

Have you ever seen a fat kid and her mom do the pony in spandex shorts? Don’t. Ever.

To this day I can’t listen to most oldies songs for fear of regression. If I hear Peggy Sue, my feet start doing the quick step heel toe heel toe heel toe and I start pulling out my hair in panic. When I watch Dirty Dancing, I put the TV on mute through the Wipeout song montage.

But copying and watching that giddy man stomp away wasn’t enough punishment for the fat kid. NO.

My mom thought Richard Simmons was sexy.

While we ponyed across the living room, he ponyed across the TV screen in his tiny red and while stripped shorts...tan, shiny legs flashing and afro bouncing.

And she would say, “OOOOO WEEEEE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AT THOSE SEXY LEGS! Huff, puff right. I’D LIKE TO LICK THOSE CALVES SOMETHIN’ FIERCE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AL, LOOK AT UM MMMM MMM! Huff, Puff right.”

Her favorite saying though, was “Richard Simmons’s legs were hand crafted by Jesus.”

Once she said it in front of my dad and through him Crown Royal replied, “Jesus don’t craft fag legs.”

My daddy was (is) an eloquent, well mannered drunk.

As you can well imagine, after weeks of being subjected to this treatment I was growing more and more agitated. Rebellion was inevitable.

It came on a Saturday afternoon. My mom had some kind of lunch get together for her friends and one brought their daughter for me to play with. Her name was Suzanne and she was a walking fence post. Of course I hated her.

As they fixed our lunch plates, our mothers discussed Richard Simmons and his “Sweatin’ to the oldies” tape. And then it came.

“His legs were hand crafted by Jesus”, my mom said reverently to her nodding friends.

And the angry fat kid in me heard those words, saw all the vegetables on that fucking lunch plate and lost it.

“Daddy says Jesus doesn’t craft fag legs and with shorts that small he probably has a vagina. And I bet he’s right! Richard Simmons is a woman!”

Crickets.

Crickets.

“Excuse us”, my mom said.

She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down the hall, into her room, and beat my ass with the biggest belt she could find. I laughed.

She banished me to my room with my plate of vegetables and the fence post Suzanne. I dug out my candy stash.

“Are you supposed to be eating that”, she asked.

“No”, I said.

“But what if you get caught? You could get spanked again.”

“So what?”

“Well...I’D be scared!”

I popped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and grinned. “That’s because you don’t have any padding, fence post.”

Then I did the pony out the door.

(Ok, so I didn’t do the pony part...but that would have been awesome right?)

After everyone left, my mom called dad at work to tell him what I’d done. When he got home that evening he stopped by my room.

“Here”, he said, handing me a $10 bill.

“What’s that for”, I asked.

“For making me laugh and pissing off your mom’s friends.”

I bought lots of candy with that $10...and I never did the pony again.